


Jacques Jingle Jester

by RebrandedBard



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alley Kiss, EDIT: now with beta, Fluff, Jaskier | Dandelion gets into trouble, M/M, Prompt Fic, Rated T for stupid implied jokes, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tumblr Prompt, and the use of the word 'arousal', as always, no beta we die like men and get our shit wrecked in the comments, this is just straight up fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27654709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebrandedBard/pseuds/RebrandedBard
Summary: Jaskier and Geralt arrive in a new town in the midst of a festival. They are each given a flower and asked to attend the festivities, for all are blessed with luck this day. However, Jaskier runs into trouble first thing and finds himself being chased by a mob of townsfolk without a clue as to what he'd done this time. Will his luck finally run out, or will he find himself luckier than ever before?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 150





	Jacques Jingle Jester

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TidbitsAndThoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TidbitsAndThoughts/gifts).



Bells were ringing, the sound carried through the merry streets, filling the air with a sense of wonder. They hung on the banners that draped from window to balcony, light to post, with colorful bunting that waved in the wind. With every gust, they shook, the chiming rocked from the smallest bells that hung at the tip of every flag. According to the local lore, the bells brought good fortune to whomever walked below them when they rang.

And where better to have such a festival than by the coast where the winds played in the mills? Everyone had luck with such fine, fierce winds to force the flags to flutter. What endless chiming! Before even learning the reason for the festival, Jaskier was in love with the whole affair. He expected the chiming to grow tiresome, but the bells were well orchestrated, and they played such delightful harmonies. This was not some empty, showy jingle, but a melodious symphony! How he wished he might stroll through town and take it all in. Unfortunately, there was no room for strolling with the pack of locals on his heels.

Jaskier ran like mad, searching for Geralt. Everything had been going so well. When he first entered the town at Geralt’s side, some lovely girls had given them each a flower. It had been a strange greeting, for the girls wore blindfolds as they selected their gifts. These were pinned to the clothes of travellers by a pair of assisting young men, who had explained that they might present their flower in the town square to receive a free drink. They eyed Jaskier, sharing a smile between them, and Jaskier thought for a fleeting moment that he might fall in with good company indeed!

It had been absolutely charming, and by far one of the best introductions to a town that Jaskier had ever experienced. And it _was_ an introduction, for Jaskier had never once set foot on the soil of the town’s road, nor even heard its name until they’d arrived. So why now should there be people chasing him? He hadn’t so much as winked at anyone, and that was the tamest thing for which he found himself so often being dogged.

He and Geralt had parted at the concessions, having received their drinks. There had been no one attending to the punch, so they had served themselves—that, Jaskier thought, was probably the trouble. Geralt had finished first and gone to secure their lodgings. Jaskier was enjoying his punch too much to drink it so quickly, and he took his time to savour it. When the first man shouted, he turned his head to see what the trouble was, only to find a group of festival-goers had started to point and shout at _him._ He hastily pointed to his flower and the cup to show that he’d been invited to have the drink, and tried to assure them that he was willing to pay if there had been some mistake, but the first man started to rush towards him and he fled, leaving his half-full cup behind. That was the biggest tragedy of it, he thought bitterly as he ran.

Up ahead, he saw Geralt chatting with an older woman by a notice board across from the inn. Naturally, the first thing he’d do after renting their room would be to look for a hunt, and who better to gather information from than a gossipy old biddy? Much as he loathed to break up such an important meeting, there were priorities to attend to, and Jaskier leapt up beside Geralt, immediately tugging his arm.

“—and we hope,” the lady said, “to have our Jacques dressed and onstage before noon. With all the travellers come in for the festival, we ought to draw enough lots to—”

“Geralt, we’ve got to go!” Jaskier interrupted. He tugged desperately, glancing over Geralt’s shoulder. He’d managed to escape most of his pursuers, but the fastest of them were hard to shake. He could hear their shouting now, though he could make out nothing clear. All the better; he wanted to be so far away that he could hear nothing at all!

Geralt sighed, apologized to the woman, and looked at Jaskier with clear exasperation. “What have you gotten into now? It’s been less than an hour.”

“I’ve done nothing!” Jaskier insisted. “I was simply having my drink—and before you say I’ve gotten myself stupid drunk in your absence, let me assure you I never got to finish my first cup. Talk later, running now!”

“There he is!” a voice shouted.

Jaskier jumped behind Geralt for protection. “I haven’t any idea why they’re after me!” Perhaps he kissed someone’s cousin along the road, but he’d done nothing _local._ How could he defend himself if he didn’t even know why they were upset? And the day had begun so nicely.

Geralt pushed Jaskier further behind him, watching the men approach from the far end of the main road. This caused Jaskier to bump the old woman. Wishing not to cause further trouble, he apologized profusely, going so far as to offer her his flower, a pretty little sprig of blue blossoms.

“Oh!” she cried, putting a hand to her chest. “Why, that flower—”

“Someone stop him!” The man was getting closer.

Geralt pulled Jaskier sharply down the road, and Jaskier fumbled, flower still pinched between his fingers. They hurried along, Jaskier sore from his hard run, already beginning to struggle to keep up. Again, Geralt made a sharp turn and pulled Jaskier into a narrow alley, pressing him to the wall, hidden in the shadows.

Together, they stood panting in the dark. Geralt edged them deeper in, maneuvering behind a stack of crates to stay out of sight. Jaskier leaned back against the wall, trying to catch his breath, and wished he still had his drink to soothe his dry throat. Bitterly, he popped the flower back in his buttonhole, grumbling about the very _fine_ reception they’d been given.

“Be still. They’re coming down the street,” Geralt warned. He placed his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, looming close as he turned his head to look down the end of the alley. He pushed Jaskier lower on the wall so that the crates might better hide him from view. Should anyone think to look in the alley, he was poised to push him out the other side.

Geralt sniffed the air. The shouting had grown quieter since Jaskier had been lost from sight. He hoped to smell the aggravation in the air to better tell how close they’d come, but the air was empty of irritation. In fact, it was entirely lacking in malice. He stepped forward, trying to get a better look. Had they passed them already? And that was when he smelled something entirely different.

He looked down at Jaskier, who was currently staring straight ahead at Geralt’s armour, eyes unfocused as though he were concentrating very hard on something—probably listening for the coming mob. His nose nearly touched the studded leather, and he was biting his lip: one of his nervous habits. Geralt huffed. The man reeked of arousal. Hadn’t gotten up to anything indeed. Geralt had seen Jaskier smile at the young men who welcomed them, and he could guess what kind of trouble he’d gotten himself into in so short a time.

Footsteps came from the street, voices drifting up the passage. Geralt quickly ducked down, pulling Jaskier with him. They sank low to the floor, Jaskier sprawled on his rear, Geralt crouching above him, and the scent only spiked at the motion. Geralt raised a quizzical brow at Jaskier.

Jaskier’s face was flushed and he was staring right back at Geralt, chest heaving from exertion. He cleared his throat and reached up to brace his hands on Geralt’s shoulders. “Here, help me up. I think I’ve sat on someth—”

Geralt ducked his head and flung a hand over Jaskier’s mouth as someone jogged by the alley, pushing him down. Jaskier was fully on his back, arms wrapped around Geralt’s neck as they pitched sideways. Geralt felt more than heard the startled grunt against his palm. He waited until the silhouette disappeared, then looked down at Jaskier to ask if he were alright.

There was hardly any blue to be seen. Jaskier’s eyes were wide and dark, gazing directly back. He swallowed, lips parted under Geralt’s hand, though he did not speak. His breath came deep and slow, though his heart had not calmed any since their escape. If anything, it was beating faster.

For the moment, Geralt could not move. He simply stayed, weight braced against Jaskier, staring. Jaskier did not protest or ask he remove himself. Gently, Geralt let his hand slide away. However, of its own accord, it slid over Jaskier’s cheek, cradled the back of his head, fingers sinking into the soft hair behind. Jaskier’s eyes flickered down to Geralt’s lips and there was no mistaking the situation.

How strong had the punch been, Geralt wondered? It was a paper-thin excuse, for no man could brew anything strong enough to intoxicate a witcher with so small a cup. And yet, he felt drunk and foolish as he dipped his face forward, breathing in Jaskier’s scent, his very air. His head was inexplicably heavy, full of fog. He must be ill, he reasoned, to be thinking such delirious thoughts, for he was thinking at that moment how much he would like to close the distance—how _very_ much he wished to know the feeling of Jaskier’s lips against his. And Jaskier seemed to be thinking the same, reaching his head up, arms pulling Geralt closer.

A sharp, sweet tang filled his senses and Geralt cursed, sitting upright as Jaskier groaned and smacked his head back on the ground. A little blue flower fell from Geralt’s armour, slightly crushed and wet. He reached for the sprig apologetically. To his relief, most of the flowers remained intact. And that was when he noticed something more.

Bluebells, Geralt observed, holding the squashed flower closer to examine. As the wind blew and the bells rang out on the main street, he recalled something the old woman had been telling him about the festival’s traditions. He watched Jaskier struggle to sit upright and grinned with amusement, realization dawning.

“I think they’ve gone,” Geralt said coolly. He stood and helped Jaskier to his feet, ushering him back toward the end of the alley.

Jaskier stumbled forward, guided by a hand at his back. “Buh—wait, what?” he sputtered. “Now—now hold _on!_ I think our daring escape can wait one _teensy_ moment. I would like to address what happened just now, and come to some hopefully lovely conclusion if you wou—”

“Jacques!” Geralt called. He pushed Jaskier into the middle of the street. “Jacques here!”

Jaskier squeaked and twisted this way and that. “Would you stop that shouting!” he hissed. “Or did you forget we just narrowly avoided being captured by a mob!”

“Jacques!”

 _“Who_ could you possibly be calling!” Jaskier shrieked. He flung his arms wide, looking at their surroundings. “We’ve never been here! We don’t know anyone, and you’re drawing attention to us, you great howling git!”

Geralt smiled, catching a movement out of the corner of his eye. “Jacques!” he called once more, a bit of humour shining through.

“Who the fuck is _Jacques!”_

The cry came up from the end of the road, “We’ve got him!”

Jaskier turned with horror as the mob emerged once more. He made to run, only to be stopped by an arm curled around his chest. He looked back at Geralt with shock, held prisoner in his grip. He pulled and pushed in a feeble attempt to scramble free, begging and asking, “What are you doing? Geralt—! Geralt, let me _go!”_

The men descended upon them with a wild cheer and grabbed a limb each, hoisting Jaskier up into the air. And Geralt let them. Jaskier screamed, kicking and clawing to no avail as he was carried back to the town square, betrayal in his eyes. Geralt smiled and gave a wicked wave, following behind the throng of captors. And then, Jaskier fell to perfect silence as another gust bid the bells to ring, and the people in the streets started singing all together:

_O way! Clear way! The king has come_

_So ring the bell and bang the drum!_

_Make way! Make room! Let no one pester_

_Our Jolly Jacques, the Jingle Jester!_

“Geralt, you tell me what’s happening right this minute!” Jaskier demanded, glaring back over his shoulder. He knew that Geralt had the answers. The smug expression he wore told all. Oh, the bastard was half a stride from skipping!

Geralt twirled the fallen flower between his fingers. “It’s a lottery. You drew the bluebell,” he explained. The woman had been telling him all about it when Jaskier came crashing into the conversation. He with the greatest luck on the holiday would draw blind the bluebell from hundreds of flowers and be crowned the jester king for the remainder of the festivities, ringing in a season of prosperity for the people. There was some legend involved about a hero jester called Jacques who’d broken a curse by switching his belled hat with the evil king’s crown, thereby dethroning him and taking his place as the benevolent king.

“And what exactly did I _win_ by this lottery?” Jaskier asked, mind racing with thoughts of being thrown in a stock and made to stand while people threw old fruit at him.

Geralt chuckled as the stage came in sight. “Musical accompaniment,” he teased.

That accompaniment came in the form of a collar made of the same bunting that hung throughout the town, hung with bells at every point, and a surprisingly stylish hat likewise embroidered with bells. It was a lovely blue—dyed with _bluebells_ , he was told. When he turned his head, they rang with an attractive chime. Following Jaskier’s crowning, an official had come to recite the story, and the festival at last began in earnest.

And so it came to pass that Jaskier was sat upon a colorful throne, served punch, and made to oversee the festivities. People came to bow and curtsey before him, and little gifts were given in tribute, all of them related to the jester’s bells in some way. Most humble tributes were made of bluebells laid at the foot of his throne. A lady in a costly lace-trim dress slipped a silver bangle onto his wrist that jingled merrily whenever he raised his hand, which he often was made to do. To bless people with luck, he would shake their hand or offer a kiss, and the attention had him glowing where not so long ago he’d been terrified. Some of the more enthusiastic shook his hand at great length, hoping to shake a bit of extra luck from the bells of the bangle.

At last, the line of people began to peter out as the townsfolk fell to drink and dancing and other lucky traditions, chasing each other around with switches, making wreaths of clover. Jaskier watched it all with bewildered delight as he gave the final stragglers their lucky handshakes and kisses. The last villager leapt from the stage, and Jaskier was left with only one other to make the very end of the line.

“Have you come to collect your share of the luck?” Jaskier asked, smiling up at Geralt.

Geralt held out a fresh cup of punch. “I’ve brought tribute,” he replied.

Jaskier’s smile only grew as he accepted the offering. He sipped it and sighed. Really, he _did_ feel lucky. He wanted to mark the day in case they ever ventured back again. “I’m covered in bells,” he chuckled. Even that small laugh caused him to chime, dozens of the tiniest bells shaking around him. “You know, they said the more bells I wear, the more luck I’ll have to give. Since you’re the very last of my subjects to pay tribute, I think you might have the best luck of the lot.”

“You don’t really believe in luck, do you?” Geralt asked. He plucked the winning sprig of bluebell from Jaskier’s doublet, waving it between them.

Jaskier hummed. “I think I might today.”

Geralt shook his head slightly, though he was smiling in kind. It was clear he was enjoying himself, and for once he made no attempt to hide the fact.

Jaskier patted his knees and sat up straight, wriggling comically in his throne. “Alright then,” he said. “Step right up to receive your luck, whether you’re a believer or not. What’s the harm in having a little fun?”

“And how am I to receive my luck?” Geralt asked.

“With a kiss, naturally. Didn’t you see that girl just now?” Jaskier patted his cheek, then gestured with his finger for Geralt to come closer. “Come, come. It wouldn’t do for a witcher to go about without accepting such an offer. They say it’s bad luck to refuse a kiss today.”

“They also say you give luck with a _handshake.”_

“Sorry, all out of shakes. Sold the last one to that gentleman there.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at that. “Have you now?” There was a playful mocking in his tone.

“Oh yes,” Jaskier assured him. “No need to be shy; it’s only on the cheek.”

“Hmm. I’m not shy.”

“Then kneel, good sir, and let us _conclude_ this part of the festivities.”

With a quiet laugh, Geralt knelt before Jaskier’s throne, hands braced on the arms. He looked up at Jaskier expectantly, then cocked his head to the side, waiting for his kiss. Jaskier leaned forward, one hand cupping the side of Geralt’s face, and pressed his lips to the proffered cheek. The kiss was hardly given when he felt the slide of skin as Geralt turned his head, their lips brushing together in something truer.

Bells rang as Jaskier lifted his other hand to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair, more ringing as Geralt reached up to wrap his hands around his back, disturbing the hanging collar. They only parted when they heard a polite cough at their side. It was the official flanked by attendants carrying a tray of food. The official was smiling at the two of them in a very knowing manner.

“It think you two might be _pushing_ your _luck_ with such brazen displays in public.”

Geralt and Jaskier looked at them, then at looked each other, and dissolved into shy laughter. The official tutted, pretending to scold them before sauntering off again, leaving the tray behind. Geralt divvied up their meal and sat against the throne to watch the fun at Jaskier’s side. He pressed against Jaskier’s legs, head resting back against Jaskier’s knees. Now and then, Jaskier ran a finger or two through his hair, twirling a strand as they sat in comfortable silence.

“So,” Jaskier said. “I get to keep the hat.”

“If you wear that thing again, I’ll rip it from your head,” Geralt threatened mildly. He couldn’t bring himself to put any effort behind it, being too comfortable for any unpleasantness. There would be time enough to be annoyed about the bells tomorrow; for now, he was content to close his eyes and let them chime.

Jaskier leaned over him, giggling as the motion wrought a fresh round of jingling. “But think of the luck it will bring!” he protested. “I plan to wear it until my luck runs dry. And after all, it is a rather handsome hat. I look so well in blue, wouldn’t you agree?”

Geralt opened his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It won’t make you any luckier—you’re only king for the day. Your luck is gone the minute the festival ends.”

“Do you suppose it ends at sundown or at midnight? I should very much like to get lucky tonight. Oh, I _do_ beg your pardon. I mean _stay_ lucky, of course.”

Geralt spun the silver bangle on Jaskier’s wrist thoughtfully, smile slowly turning mischievous. “Now that you mention it, I think I heard someone say that the festival might go on for a week with all the offerings you’ve been given. Perhaps a month.”

“Or two?” Jaskier proposed. “I _did_ receive some generous offerings.”

“Maybe more. I think your luck might go on for a long time.” He played with Jaskier’s fingers, bringing their hands together over his shoulder. He turned his head, pressing his lips to the knuckles, and spoke against Jaskier’s skin. “Isn’t it lucky to give a kiss?”

“I believe it is.”

“Then,” Geralt said, “I think your future will be littered with tributes.”

Jaskier tapped his palm, tracing little shapes with his finger. “And how shall I receive these tributes?” he asked. “On the hand? The cheek?”

“I suppose you’ll have to wait until tonight to find out.”

When the time came to slip away, the townsfolk listened with knowing amusement as their lucky jester Jacques jingled toward the inn, the bells above the street ringing like a wedding mass. All in good time. The bluebells were only beginning to bloom.

[Art by Me, Rebrandedbard](https://rebrandedbard.tumblr.com/post/635913826538225664/its-ya-boi-the-jingle-jester-jaskier-man-it)

**Author's Note:**

> This one goes out, as usual, to my friend TidbitsAndThoughts who sent me a trope prompt like two months ago (or more, yikes!) and I forgot. The prompt was something like, "people are chasing me so we're hiding in an alley and oh wow you're close." I do not know. The post is lost to the void of time and space. But! I am! Finally finished!
> 
> EDIT: 11/26/2020
> 
> Now with art lmao


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